Page 15 of Crack the Ice

“I don’t know,” I sigh. “I’ll go find out, finish your food, okay?”

I pull the door open, looking in both directions before I catch the sound of her voice and follow it down the corridor.

“Cecilia,” I say, loud enough for her to hear me. She picks up speed, but I’m not about to let her get away again. I lightly grab her elbow, and she spins, knocking my hand away.

“Cecy, what’s wrong?” I shove my hands in my pockets to keep from touching her. Hurt and anger swirl in her eyes, each battling for dominance as they root me to my spot.

“I don’t have time for this.” She starts to turn, but I jump in front of her.

“Why are you crying?”

She buries her head in her hands, letting out the most frustrated sound I’ve ever heard from her. “Because I’m tired of pretending it doesn’t kill me to see⁠—”

“Hey Reed!” My name is bellowed down the hall, cutting off whatever she was about to say. One of the junior hawks coaches rounds the corner, stopping when he sees the two of us. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt. But I need your help with something real quick.”

Cecilia peeks through her fingers at me, and I almost smile.

Turning toward him, I nod. “No one else can help? I’m kind of in the middle–”

“Come on, Reed. You’re the guy. You’ll have figured out how to fix it faster than the rest of us could collectively.”

I sigh, my eyes sliding back to Cecilia. Stepping in closer, I wrap my hand around her wrist and pull her hands gently away from her face. “Are you going to be okay?” I ask, bending so we're eye level.

Her hands fall away as she drags her tongue over her lips, licking up the tears that cling to them. “Just go,” she whispers, though it cracks on the way out.

I don’t move for a second, waiting to see if she’ll give me anything else, and when she doesn’t, I turn toward Coach Henderson, jogging down the corridor to fix whatever problem he’s got himself into. One that apparently, I’m the guy for.

I pause at the last second, turning to look at her over my shoulder. Tension coils in my forehead when I realize she hasn’t moved.

“Reed,” Henderson calls from further down the hall. I close the gap between us, my mind still back in the hallway.

“What’s the problem?”

He pulls open the locker room door, and I see what’s up. The locker room has filled to the brim with ping pong balls. “The fuck?”

Henderson shakes his head, wrapping his hand around his neck as his gaze sweeps across the room. There’s got to be thousands of these stupid things in here. My first thought is that it was Monroe, but he’s taking the week off to spend with his family.

“I don’t even know where to start,” he mumbles beside me.

I huff out a breath, doing my best to figure out what the best logistical solution would be so that we’re not here for hours. “Can you go get a bunch of trash bags, maybe some of the mesh equipment bags? I’m going to go find a push broom.”

He gives me a salute before turning on his heel and yelling, “On it, Cap,” as he walks out the door.

I stare at the sea of white at my feet. The ridiculousness of this situation isn’t lost on me, and whoever is behind this will be skating laps until they puke. I should still be in the hallway, begging for her to tell me why she’s crying, or why her answer wasn’t me. But instead, I’m here, picking up someone’s literal balls. Why could no one else do this? Why is it me? Why is it always me?

Fucking bullshit.

FIVE

CECILIA

My eyes stay trained on the wall in front of me. My throat tightens with every step he takes. He came after me, and the ember of hope I snuffed out years ago caught fire for the briefest of seconds. Hope that maybe he’d missed me the way I missed him. But the ease with which he turned and walked away may as well have been a bucket of ice water, a confirmation that I did the right thing for us both by walking away when I did.

“Who’s there for you?” The innocent words are going to haunt me for a long time.

The lights are suddenly too bright, the fluorescent bulbs buzz above me, skittering over my skin like a million tiny pinpricks. Tears continue to breach my lash line, and I don’t even hear my brother come around the corner. Nor do I realize I’m buried in his chest, his arms banded around my shoulders, squeezing tight enough that some of my broken pieces slide back into place. It isn’t until he pulls me away and shakes my shoulders that the sound filters back in, though. What an odd sensation.

“Cecy, why the hell are you crying?” he asks, bending until we’re eye level.